


Gang Life

by veron_writes



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Angst, BDSM, Cigarettes, Death, Dom/sub, Drugs, Everyone Is Gay, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Gay, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Gun Violence, Kidnapping, Kinky, Lemon, Light BDSM, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Oral Sex, Other, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rough Sex, Sex, Sex Toys, Sexual Abuse, Smoking, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:27:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28372380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veron_writes/pseuds/veron_writes
Summary: **Mortal AU**Percy Jackson ran away from his abusive stepfather at the age of 11 to live with a well-known gang. He becomes someone he never imagined he would, addicted to drugs, alcohol, sex, and cigarettes. However, he has no choice but to continue to live with the gang and work with them because, without them, he would be homeless and hungry. And so would his child.When the Avengers take him in for questioning, will he be able to redeem himself? And possibly find love with a certain teenage avenger?
Relationships: Percy Jackson/Other(s), Percy Jackson/Peter Parker
Comments: 12
Kudos: 63





	1. The Manhattan Rooks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Kidnapping

***WARNINGS***  
\- Explicit Language  
\- Slight Violence  
\- Smoking  
\- Mentions of Sexual Abuse

Percy’s POV:

“I swear to God, Jerry, I’m gonna get the fuck outta this shithole one day. I can’t do this anymore!” I spin towards Jerry, waving my gun in the air.

He scoffs and closes his book. “You know you can’t do that Jackson. They’ll never let you.” He stands, sitting the book on my desk before turning back to me, pushing his glasses back up. “Besides, where would you even go? You’d starve to death on the streets within weeks. And that’s if no one came for you.” He raises an eyebrow. “We both know Byron definitely wouldn’t let you go without a fight.”

I furiously run my hand through my already disastrous hair before whirling around to my desk and throwing everything off, shouting in frustration as thoughts of that repulsive man fill my head.

“Jackson!” Jerry hisses. He lurches forward and grabs my arm, leaning closer to me. “Not so loud! Think about what’ll happen if he hears you.”

I twist my head to look him in the eyes. My breathing sounds loud in my own ears, almost drowning out the conversations outside my room. “Jerry…The things he does to me…” my voice cracks, “I don’t know how much longer I can take it.” My eyes burn with tears threatening to spill.

His grip on me softens and he opens his mouth to say something, but just then a knock sounds on the door and he completely lets go of my arm, backing up.

I turn my head away from him and proceed to bore holes into my now empty desk as I mutter, “Come in, Elritt.”

The door flies open. “Jackson—Sir—I mean, my-my guy—I mean, Boss?” 

I raise an eyebrow, still looking at the desk.

Elritt clears his throat. “S-Sir Jackson, my guy boss, Ray told me to tell you your next appointment is here.”

“Ah, right. Tell them I’ll be down.” I take my hands off my desk and rub my face, breathing in deeply, trying to pull myself together. Once I hear the door close behind me, I turn back to Jerry and sigh.

He steps up to me again. “Jack, I–“

“It’s fine, Jerry. Forget I ever said anything. Just–“ I glance towards the door, “—just stay… stay near me… please.” I look into his rich brown eyes that peek through shaggy fringe. They were the only eyes that never failed to calm me. 

For a moment he just stares at me.

Then, after shaking his head a little and clearing his throat, he puts his hand firmly on my shoulder, speaking slowly, “Jackson. I will never leave you. You know that.”

I stare at him blankly again for a second before a smile gradually forms on my face. I lift my hand to gently rest on his smooth cheek and gaze into his gentle, puppy-like eyes, feeling more calm every second that they connect with mine. 

For as long as I’ve known him, Jerry has had a soft spot for me. Two years older than me and two times as tough, he’d beat the shit out of anyone who dared mess with me. He has an intimidating look about him, and, although he’s not particularly tall, he’s built like a tank, his biceps practically the size of tree trunks. 

But all I see when I look at him is his true self. His secret self. His gigantic fucking nerd self. I swear to fuck, all he does is read, and he’s always got to explain every single fucking second of the plot to me in excruciating detail. 

But it’s cute so I let it slide.

The only people he’s never been able to protect me from are my stepdad, Gabe, and Byron, the leader of this miserable gang. Gabe was the only person I’ve ever known that actually scared the shit out of Jerry. Most likely due to his love of extreme violence and the fact that Jerry was only a preteen when they knew each other.

Byron, on the other hand, never scared Jerry in the slightest. But with the high amount of blackmail he holds over my head, Jerry can’t do a thing to stop him.  
I suppose that’s my own fault, though.

Shaking these thoughts from my head, I lean down slightly and softly press my lips to his, sliding my hand away from his cheek and into the back of his hair to pull him closer. The hand that rested on my shoulder slowly starts to slide up and down my bicep, rubbing soothingly as his mouth melts into mine. 

I wish I could just stay here forever.

But I got a fucking job to do, I guess.

I pull away suddenly and tousle Jerry’s brown hair, grinning. Before he can say anything, I head out the door and down the stairs, rubbing my eyes one last time to try and look presentable. Jerry’s footsteps follow not far behind.

As I trudge down the last of the stairs, I pop a cigarette in my mouth and adjust the complicated straps that twine around my entire body, connecting my backpack to me as securely as humanly possible. 

When I step off the last stair and look back up, I’m standing directly in front of Rick, my old pal, sharpening his knife.

“Woah! Hey, Rick. Didn’t see you there.” I clasp his shoulder. “How’s life treatin’ ya? Find some new pussy yet? I sure did.” I grin. “But I sure as fuck ain’t sharing.”

He glances at me through the corner of his eye underneath a mop of blonde hair. “Don’t care, Pretty Boy. Fuck off.” He slaps my hand off of his shoulder.

I roll my eyes and stand next to him anyway. I’ll never understand why he despises me so much. “Don’t suppose you know where my clients are?” I talk around the cigarette in my mouth as I roll up my sleeves, my gaze roaming the room.

Rick puts his knife back at his hip and glares at me, eyeing my cigarette and then glancing at the pack of them strapped to my thigh. “I swear to God, shitface, are you ever not smoking?” 

I take the cigarette out of my mouth and blow smoke in his face. “No.”

He growls and pulls his knife back out, pointing it at me. “I fucking swear, Jackson. If ya don’t fuck off I’ll—"

“Excuse me.” A blond man walks up to us with two other people I don’t recognize close behind.

I raise an eyebrow in surprise. Who the fuck are these people?

The man who spoke previously sticks out his hand. “Stan.” He gestures behind him. “And this is Tom and Natalie. We were told that you’re Jackson, our new dealer, by that guy over there.” 

He points to Jerry a few yards away, chatting up some girl. He glances over at me every few seconds, and when he sees me looking at him, sends me a grin and two thumbs up.

I snort and shake my head before looking back at my apparent clients. “I was just looking for you fuckers.” I laugh. But the blond man, Stan, frowns, and the man behind him squints at me. 

“Are you sure you’re Jackson?” Tom, the man who was squinting at me, says as he steps out from behind Stan to stand in front of me.

I blow my cigarette in his face and sneer. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I am, dickweasel. Got a fucking problem with that?”

He stares at me with a sort of odd, forlorn look that makes me feel like he personally assassinated both of my parents. Not that I would be overly sad about that. 

I raise an eyebrow and wave my hand in front of his depressing face. “Anyway, my dear clients, let’s get down to business.” (A/N If you guys don’t finish that line, I’ll be sad) 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jerry edging closer towards us with his hand on the gun at his hip; and on my right, Rick stands stiffly with his hand rested on his knife. 

What’s gotten into them?

Feeling a little nervous now, I gesture for my new clients to follow me up the stairs. Rick and Jerry trail behind. 

Why the hell is Rick following us? He doesn’t give a shit about my jobs.

I open the door to my room and allow my clients, Rick, and Jerry to walk in first. As Jerry lumbers in last, I hear him inhale sharply, sounding surprised; and when I enter my room, I see why.

There, leaning on my desk with his legs spread and no shirt on, is Byron, our gang leader. 

My eyes widen and I instinctively grip my backpack behind me, feeling rather stiff and awkward all of a sudden.

Eyes boring into mine, he smirks. “Didn’t realize you’d have company, Jacky.” He doesn’t move from my disaster of a desk.

I swallow hard, unconsciously taking a step backward.

Everyone in the room stares at me and I start to feel nauseous, my heart picking up its pace. I wipe my sweaty palm on my leg, my other hand still latched onto my backpack, and close the door behind me. I take several long drags from my cigarette. 

When I turn back to face everyone, my vision goes a little blurred and I blink rapidly to try and clear it. It doesn’t work. “Uh, yea-yeah, Sir. Some clients.”

The smirk doesn’t leave his face as he nods, seemingly sensing my unnerved feelings around him and reveling in it. 

I glance at each face in the room. 

Tom’s eyes are widened, his eyebrows are raised, and his mouth is slightly agape; and he’s staring at me with that same oddly regretful look. You’d think this dude ran over my non-existent dog or something.

Stan’s eyes are glazed over as he stares at Byron’s abs, looking a bit traumatized. 

Both Rick and Natalie have an arched eyebrow, but otherwise they’re completely stoic.

When my eyes slide over to meet Jerry’s, I feel a pang of shame seeing his eyes filled with pity, most likely thinking of our earlier conversation. He clenches his jaw, his eyes never leaving mine.

Trying to steady my breathing, I walk around Bryon to my desk; but as I pass him, his arm shoots out and tightly grabs my bicep. I let out an embarrassing squeak. 

I can’t fucking believe I’m acting like this in front of my subordinates. Pull yourself together, dam it.

I turn my head towards Byron stiffly with my jaw clenched, attempting to act confident. As soon as I make eye contact with him however, I feel my insides shrivel. 

The sneer still plastered on his face, he pulls my arm, making me stumble closer to him. I hold back another whimper.

“Take care of this quickly, Jacky,” he hisses in my ear, too quietly for anyone else to hear. “You know what I want. I’m not leaving this room ‘till I get it. Got it, little bitch?” 

I swallow the lump in my throat and nod rigidly. 

He yanks my arm again, making me fall into his lap. 

This time, I can’t stop a whimper from falling through my lips. I clutch my backpack behind me with one hand and hold my other one in front of me as hopeless protection between him and me. “By-byron, please.” 

He raises an eyebrow and, in a half a second, pulls out his knife and holds it at my throat.

“S-sir! I meant sir! I swear to God.”

Byron slowly nods, never breaking the penetrating eye contact as he leisurely slides his knife back in its sheath on his leg. “Stand up.” He lets go of my arm.

I shoot to my feet and scurry away from him behind my desk. With shaky hands, I pick up a few papers off the floor and slide them across the desk towards my clients.

Byron gets off the desk and moves to the corner of the room, proceeding to glare at me with his arms crossed over his bare chest.

“So, uh, here-here are just some papers imma need y’all to- uh, to sign.” I clear my throat, struggling to compose myself.

No one moves or says a word.

Blinking a few times, I try my best to ignore Byron and straighten my shoulders. “Fuckers,” I raise my voice, “sign the goddamn papers.” 

Rick clears his throat and Stan steps forward, snapping out of his haze. He reaches for a pen, but before he signs the paper, he glances at Tom before locking eyes with Natalie, seemingly communicating something.

“Hey.” Rick’s eyes dart between the three new clients. “Wait.”

Everyone looks at him.

He steps up to Stan with his hand still on his knife. “What’s that in you and your little friends’ shirts?” 

I step around my desk again to get a closer look at what Rick’s talking about. “Rick, wha-“

His hand shoots out, grabbing down the collar of Stan’s shirt and then yanking back with a fist full of wires. 

They’re bugged.

In an instant, everyone in the room has weapons out. 

Natalie holds two guns, one directed at Jerry, and one at Byron.

Jerry has a gun focused on Natalie, Rick has a knife pointed at her, and Byron holds a gun towards Stan.

Tom is engulfed in a fucking iron suit of some sort, and Stan is holding a shield with… is that a gay pride flag or something? Where the fuck did he get that?

Before I have much time to think about it, the gay shield smacks me straight in the side of the head and, as I crumple to the ground in a disoriented state, the moment of frozen silence is broken and everyone jumps into action.

Several gunshots ring through the air, but when I lift my head, all I see are blurry forms. 

Am I looking up right now? Or sideways? Oh my god, where the fuck am I? 

Shocks of pain slice through my skull, making me lower my head back down and groan.

A feel something slap into my arm and when I laboriously twist my head to the side, there appears to be a body lying next to me. 

“Jackson!”

Who the hell said that? Am I underwater? I must be dreaming; this doesn’t make any sense.

Suddenly, I’m being lifted from my cozy spot on the floor and feel something cold pressed against my neck. I hear more muffled warbling sounds that sound like people arguing, then, I’m moving; even though my legs are completely collapsed. I feel the bottom half of my legs being dragged across the floor until my whole body’s lifted into the air.

A voice pierces my ears, sending another round of ringing through my head, “Steve! Don’t hit his head on the doorfra-“

Everything goes black.


	2. There’s Only One Thing Worse Than a Rapist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s Only One Thing Worse Than a Rapist

***WARNINGS***  
\- Explicit Language  
\- Homophobic Language  
\- Mild Sexual Jokes

Peter’s POV:

My hands prop my head up on the interrogation table as I stare at the unconscious man across from me. His wrists and legs are tied to the chair, his head lolled to the side, causing his hair to fall in his eyes. 

He almost looks too pretty to be a criminal. And so young too. Is he even out of highschool? He has to be about my age. 

My eyes glide over his sharp cheekbones, marked with scars and scratches, and then over the smooth droop of his slightly parted lips. A light scruff of hair covers his jaw and chin, almost invisible. 

I glance down at his body. He’s clothed in a see-through, white dress shirt with short sleeves that’s tucked into black jeans. The shirt seems as though it could burst open at any moment with how tightly stretched it is over his broad chest. Through his shirt I can see an assortment of tattoos smothering his arms, chest, and…abs.

I swallow.

My eyes lazily slide back up his body, but when I reach his face, I yelp in surprise and shoot up out of my chair, stumbling as I try to regain my balance.

His startling green eyes are now open and staring directly into my soul.

I expect him to move, to flail, to struggle against his bonds and try to escape; but he just sits there, entirely still, and watches me with those frightening eyes, head still slightly lolled. 

I force an awkward smile and give him a small wave. “Hi.”

No response.

Bruce?” I call, feeling nervous as the intimidating man never looks away from me with that almost predatory gaze.

From the corner of the room I hear Bruce snort awake and rise from his chair. “What? What is it? Are you okay, Peter?”

I don’t respond as he scurries over to where I’m standing. I gesture to the chilling gaze.

“Ah, you’re awake again.” Bruce drops into to seat I was just in, bringing out several clipboards, files, and a box of medical equipment. “I hope your coherent this time.”

The man simply continues with his intense glowering. 

“Right, well, it seems you’ve gone to the opposite side of things. You know, before, you were giving all kinds of information, but you were barely understandable. It was quite sad really. I think Steve must’ve hit you pretty hard.” He shakes his head. “I already checked you over a bit though, and there doesn’t seem to be any permanent damage; so no worries, Jackson.”

The man’s head lifts slowly from its sideways state, but the intimidating look never leaves his eyes. “You what?” A deep, gravelly voice falls from his lips, cracking on each word.

Oh my god, that was not the voice I was expecting. 

Bruce looks up at him as he scribbles information on his clipboard. “I checked you over for any permanent damage. But like I said, you’ll be fine.”

The man, Jackson apparently, glances down at his body and then twists to look behind him, seemingly checking for something.

“If you’re looking for your weapons, we’ve removed them all, of course. As for your backpack, we couldn’t get it off of you or open it. Those are some complicated straps you’ve got on there, kid. It’s a little ridiculous.” 

“You checked me?” That same cracky voice rasps. 

Bruce sets his clipboard back down and crosses his arms on the table. “Oh that? Indeed I did.” He leans a little closer. “And from what I saw, it’s not hard to imagine the kinds of things you’ve had to go through, son.” He sighs. “I know how you must feel right no-“

“You don’t know shit,” Jackson interrupts with that hoarse voice of his. He stares at Bruce with slightly watery eyes and swallows.

“Mr. Banner, what do you—” I stop when I see Jackson’s gaze shift to me. “Uh, never mind. I’ll ask you later.”

“Alright then, well, let’s get started.” Bruce heaves his medical box onto his lap and begins digging through it.

Suddenly, the door slams open and an irritated Tony marches in. “Bruce! Why is he in here?” He points at me. “You know I don’t want him—him mingling with Jackson and his little partners!”

Bruce holds a sphygmomanometer in the air between him and Tony. “Relax, Tony. He hasn’t spoken to any of them or even been near them. Right, Peter?”

I quickly nod.

Jackson scoffs, but doesn’t say anything.

Bruce shoots him a glare. “Anyway, we were just about to start. You’re free to join us, Tony.”

Tony glances at the two other unconscious men tied to chairs behind Jackson before leveling his squinting gaze on the man about to be interrogated. He huffs, collapsing into a chair next to Bruce. “Fine.”

“Great. Alright, Jackson. First, oh wait- you can’t hold out your arm.” Bruce purses his lips. “Well, I’ll just come to you.”

He gets up, slamming his box on the metal table and going around it to stand next to Jackson. Holding the sphygmomanometer in one hand, he reaches out to touch Jackson’s shoulder with his empty one. He does so slowly, gently, looking into to the man’s eyes as if asking for permission. 

Jackson’s chest stops moving and he holds completely still, not even blinking when the hand moves his short sleeve out of the way and wraps the Velcro around his bicep. 

Bruce glances up at his face. “I’m gonna need you to breathe, kid.”

He lets out a puff of air before breathing back in intensely. 

Bruce’s eyebrows furrow. “Is your blood pressure always this high?”

Jackson stares at him. “What’s that?” 

The doctor blinks and raises his eyebrows before glancing at Tony. 

“You honestly think he’s ever been to a doctor in his life, Doctorman?” A voice mumbles from behind Jackson. 

Jackson startles, attempting to twist around. “Rick? Is that you? Where are you? Where’s Jerry? Is he okay?”

“One question at a time, cockburger. Your little crush is right next to me and he’s unconscious,” he says. “And we’re literally right fucking behind you, dipshit. Here,” he clears his throat, “Jerry! Wake up, fucker!”

Snorting, Jerry’s head shoots upright and his eyes snap open. “Wha’? 

“Somebody turn me around for fuck’s sake!” Jackson snarls.

“Tch, don’t be a dumbass,” Rick scoffs. “Our chairs are all anchored to the floor.”

“Rick, I swear, if you don’t shut the fuck up for two fucking seconds—”

“You’ll what? Struggle to lift your middle finger at me?” he jeers. “Look around, assgoblin, you’re tied to a chair that’s fucking attached to the floor and surrounded by a bunch of fucking professional killers that don’t seem to like you any more than I do. Just stop being a crybaby.”

A growl rumbles through Jackson as he stops squirming and turns back around to face us, going completely still again and glowering at the table.

Jerry clears his throat. “You alright, Jack? Last time you were awake you didn’t seem to be in the best condition.”

He raises an eyebrow, eyes not moving from the table. “I’ll survive. I’ve had worse.”

“I bet you have.” A snicker falls from Rick’s mouth. “Say, ‘Jacky ’, what was our Bossman doing half-naked on your desk anyway? He looked pretty… happy to see you.”

Jackson whirls in his seat to face Rick and I hear the sound of bones cracking as he lets out a snarl. “The fuck did you just say to me, you fucking cumdumster?”

Rick laughs. “I think we both know who the real cumdumster here is, faggot.” He sneers, enjoying pushing the younger gang member’s buttons.

I glance over at Bruce and Tony. Tony stares in shock, his eyes wide and mouth parted, seemingly engrossed in the arguing. Bruce, on the other hand, is furiously scribbling notes on his clipboard, hardly even glancing at the two drug dealers.

“Rick, shut the fuck up!” Jerry suddenly screeches as colorful words continue to fill the room, rapidly increasing in hostility. 

Surprisingly, they both listen. 

Jackson slackens back into a normal sitting position, his right wrist bone now pointing in an odd direction underneath the straps holding it down. His face remains blank however, seemingly unaffected by what I would have thought to be extreme pain.

Rick sits completely relaxed in his chair with a wicked smirk plastered on his face.

I don’t like this guy.

“Alright, well…” Bruce finally speaks up, clearing his throat, “Uh… I just have a— a few questions I need to ask you, Jackson.” He swallows and starts tapping his foot on the floor with Jackson’s cold gaze zeroed in on his face. 

“Okay, first of all, how… how old are you?”

“Eighteen.” He answers simply and without hesitation.

Bruce’s eyebrows raise.

“I thought you were born in—” Tony cuts himself off abruptly, biting his lip. “Never mind.” 

Jackson watches him through dark lashes with steady, slightly squinted eyes. And when Bruce starts talking again, his eyes don’t waver for even a second, still fixed on Tony.

“Wow, that’s, uh, that’s pretty young.” Bruce shifts in his seat. “How did you end up in this line of business, kid?”

No reply.

“It was me,” Jerry’s soft voice murmurs from the back. 

Bruce raises an eyebrow, indicating for him to go on.

“I was 13. He was 11. We ran away from our homes and joined this gang. That’s all there is to it.”

The corners of Rick’s mouth raise. “Yeah, and Jackson’s mom was a total druggie, from what I heard.”

“No, she’s wasn’t,” Jackson growls. “Now next question.” His fingers twitch.

“And his dad a fucking douche,” he continues. “Did all kinds of things with you, am I right?” The mocking man’s gaze bores into the back of Jackson’s head. “Maybe that’s why you turned out the way you did, eh, Jacky Boy?”

“And the fuck you mean by that?” Jackson twists around again, ignoring his clearly broken wrist. 

“You already know, fuckwit. But what you apparently don’t know, is The Rooks’ policy on gay shit.” Rick spits next to him.

Jackson snorts. “Yeah, well tell that to Byron. Apparently he’s not aware of his own gang’s policy.” He slumps back around. 

Jerry sits stiffly, looking rather uncomfortable.

“So, your life… in this gang…” Tony murmurs, looking down at the table, “it’s not so great?”

“What makes you think that’s any of your fucking business, goatee man?” Jackson’s eyes bores holes into Tony. 

Tony flinches. His eyes are distant and clouded over, seemingly lost in thought.

Bruce clears his throat. “Alrightt, let’s bring this back on track, shall we?” He chuckles awkwardly. “You were awake yesterday and—”

“Yesterday?!” Jackson’s head whirls to look at Bruce with wide eyes.

He adjusts his glasses. “Yes. Is there a problem?”

“How fucking long have I been here?!”

“Just since yesterday, young man. Why?” Bruce rests his clipboard on his lap.

“Calm down, Jack,” Jerry whispers. “The door’ll be fine.”

Bruce takes his glasses off and sets them on the table. “The door? What on earth—”

“It’s his¬¬ d—”

“Shut up, Rick!” Jackson hisses.

“They’re obviously gonna find out at some point, dumbass.”

Jackson glares at the table, eyebrows crunched and jaw clenched. Through gritted teeth, he finally mutters, “I’ll tell you how to open my backpack.”

Tony squints at him. “Nothing in there is gonna hurt us, right?”

A full, hearty laugh escapes Jackson’s mouth, surprising me, before he quickly silences it down to a slight grin. “No promises.”

Tony raises an eyebrow, but saunters around the table anyway and stands next to him.

“You’re gonna have to reach between my legs first.”

A startled wheeze falls from Tony’s mouth, sending him into a coughing fit.

“Chill, goatee man. You’re not the first to be between my legs. And I don’t usually bite.”

Tony glares at him as his hand slowly reaches forward and slides between the gang member’s legs, a look of discomfort engulfing his face. 

“There are three hooks there. Unclip them.” Jackson remains unfazed. 

Three consecutive pops sound as Tony does what he said.

The straps around his thighs and between his legs slide off, tangling together.

“Now go for—No, not those ones! The ones on my chest.”

Tony continues following Jackson’s orders for another five minutes until the backpack finally goes limp against him.

The raven-haired boy swallows hard. “Now just, uh, lift it—” he glances back, “—lift it off.”

Are his eyes watering?

I glance down at his hands to see them shaking, and his leg starts to bounce.

Tony grips the sturdy material and slowly lifts it straight up, grimacing as if something were going to jump out at him.

At last, the backpack falls away to reveal that it was never really a backpack at all. The entire inside wall of it is wide open, making it more of a cover than anything else. And as my eyes travel back down to Jackson, I see what is was covering.

There, strapped snugly to his back in a Mei Tei Wrap, is a tiny baby, sound asleep against his shoulders.


	3. Fucknugget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A second kidnapping

Peter’s POV:

***WARNINGS***  
\- Explicit Language  
\- Violence

Complete silence.

Every single pair of eyes in the room are intently set on the baby, mouths open in shock.

“The hell are you all gawking at? Never seen a baby before or some’?” Jackson snaps. His glowering gaze roams the room before settling on Tony, his leg still bouncing up and down.

I glance over at him too. He looks the most surprised out of everybody, his eyes almost… watering? 

Is he crying?

Everyone snaps out of it at Jackson’s comment except Tony, who brings his hand over his mouth and turns around. As he does, I notice his shoulders shaking faintly. Then he’s out of the room, hand still covering his mouth.

I blink, but I don’t have time to think much of it because suddenly Jackson is being bombarded with questions from every direction.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Clint appears to Jackson’s left, holding an arrow out towards him.

“How long has that been in there?” Natasha demands from next to Clint, her arms crossed.

When did they get here?

Steve gasps from the doorway, his hand flying to his mouth. “Do you swear and do your drugs around her?”

“Did you make that?” I squeak, interrupting. 

Everyone’s gaze shifts to me and the room is suddenly silent.

Jackson squints at me and I shift in discomfort. 

Why are they staring at me? 

Maybe they didn’t hear me right. 

“The wrap and backpack. You made it?” I repeat. 

Steve sighs in relief and I swear a small smirk starts to form on Jackson’s face, but Bruce interjects before he can answer. 

“That’s not important right now.” Bruce flies around the table, hands reaching for the wrap. “Why the hell do you have a baby in there?”

Jackson attempts to jerk away from him. “Get your hands away from me and my baby, grabby man.”

He falters and then grabs his clipboard instead. “How long has she been in there?”

“How long have I been here?”

“Since yesterday early afternoon. Approximately…” he glances at his watch, “thirty-two hours.”

“Then apparently two fucking days.” The gang member glares at him.

Bruce purses his lips and scribbles on his clipboard. “When’s the last time she’s eaten? How old is she?”

He just shakes his head and looks down at his lap.

“Do you know how much she weighs?” Bruce continues with the questions, “How’s her breathing? Does she have any health problems?”

“I don’t know!” Jackson’s head suddenly jerks to glare at the doctor, eyes red and watery. “I don’t know any of it! I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing! I don’t even know my own child’s goddamn birthday!” His voice chokes on the last part and his fists clench in the restraints. 

The room is silent again as Bruce slowly turns to look at Natasha. After a moment of them seemingly communicating with their eyes, he murmurs, “The baby has nothing to do with the gang, Natasha. So…”

She nods and I glance back and forth between them in confusion.

Natasha marches towards the restrained criminal.

“What are you doing?” he croaks, leaning away from her.

She doesn’t respond. Instead, she begins reaching for the still sound asleep baby.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey!” His eyes widen and he starts harshly jerking his arm in an attempt to get free. “No… no, no, no! Just bring whatever she needs here!” 

“We can’t do that, Jackson,” Bruce speaks from next to me. “She’ll need a full, thorough check-up that we can’t perform here.”

“What? No!” His hands start to shake. “Why? She’s okay! She’s okay, I swear to God!” 

Natasha slips behind him and lays her hands on the baby’s wrap to untie it. 

Jackson’s eyes spring wide, his nostrils flaring in fury. “Don’t fucking touch me, woman,” he growls in warning, voice low and at the very edge of calmness. 

She hesitates for a moment, making eye contact with the young father and seeming to empathize with him. But then her hands return to their task, disregarding him, her jaw set.

It was then that the young gang member went fully animalistic, ripping his good wrist out of its restraints and latching onto Natasha’s arm. He twists his neck around until it makes a popping sound and sinks his teeth into the flesh of Natasha’s forearm.

She cries out and Steve runs over to help, but before he can, she grabs Jackson’s entire face with her other hand and shoves it back, ripping her arm out of his mouth.

A tear slides out of the boy’s eye, sliding down the side of his cheek, his head still pushed back at his forehead. His now bloody teeth are bared as he snarls, “Get your fucking filthy ass hands off me! I’ll fucking kill you.” Another tear slides out, colliding with the blood slipping down his chin. “I swear I’ll fucking kill all of you if you fucking touch her.” He spits a chunk of skin in her face. “Fucknugget.”

“Goodluck with that in your situation, kid.” She wipes the blood and piece of skin off her face with her free hand, wincing at the movement of her injury. “Steve, a little help?”

He nods and steps forward, grabbing Jackson by the forehead and arm and holding him down to his chair.

Jackson still doesn’t give up, writhing and struggling against Steve’s superhuman strength unsuccessfully. He lets out a yell of frustration. “God damn it! Let me go, old man!”

Steve only presses harder, earning a yelp from the boy.

He stops struggling, defeated. “Please…”

Natasha pulls the baby from her place on her father’s back and holds her close, turning away and dashing out the door with Bruce close behind.

“No! Please! I beg- I beg you!” Jackson wails, choking on tears, saliva, and blood. “Don’t take her from me!”

But they’re already gone, the shrill wail of a recently awoken baby drifting through the doorway.


	4. Lucky Bitchtits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first deaths of the story

**Warnings:**  
• Homophobic slurs  
• Strong profanity

• Slight gore

Peter’s POV:

The room is uncomfortably quiet yet again, the only sound being Jackson’s faint sniveling as sobs wrack through his body, shaking his shoulders. Steve had already let go of his forehead, seeing how defeated he was, and is now working on reattaching the kid’s wrist to the armrest, as well as adding new restraints. Jackson sits slumped in the cold, metal chair, head hung low so that his face is hidden by his hair, not even trying to fight Steve off him. What was once an intricate baby wrap is now just loose pieces of fabric tumbling down his back.

Natasha, Tony, and Bruce still haven’t returned, so I continue to just stand next to Clint, scratching my neck in the uncomfortable silence.

Finally, Steve straightens up after finishing binding Jackson’s arms, legs, and torso. He clears his throat awkwardly. “Uh, sorry, kid, but I’m going to need you to, uh, to lift your head and just… lean it back a bit.” He places his hands on Jackson’s forehead again, gently this time, and lightly pushes it back to flop on the headrest of the chair.

Jackson doesn’t respond in any way. He simply lays there, letting Steve secure a strap around his forehead and attach it to the chair, as well as a loose one around his neck, rendering him completely immobile. The straps angle his head back a bit on the headrest, making his Adam’s apple jut out and his hair slip out of his face, exposing his miserable appearance. 

His beautiful eyes are half-closed and rimmed with red, tears still sliding out of them. His lips are parted, uttering a small sob every now and then. I thought the buttons on his shirt looked like they were on the verge of popping earlier, but now there’s no way they’ll last more than five minutes against his chest, which heaves and stutters with every quiet sob. 

Steve steps back, the restraints completed. He glances back at the criminal before awkwardly scuffling over to stand next to Clint and me.

Jackson still doesn’t react or move in any respect. 

I lean over near Steve’s ear. “Isn’t that a bit much?” My eyes glide over the ties around his head, neck, and torso.

He sighs. “Well clearly the previous set-up was no match for him, and we can’t have him getting loose. Judging by his reaction earlier, I wouldn’t be surprised if he went straight to murdering us all to get to his child.” He crosses his arms. “I can’t be responsible for that.” 

“I know… it’s just- Well, look at him.” I fling my arm out to gesture towards to miserable man who is forcibly bent into a slightly awkward position. “Why can’t he just have his baby?”

Jackson’s eyes slide down to stare at me.

The intense eye contact with such an intimidating man makes me uncomfortable, but I gaze back, feeling sorry for him.

“Bruce is doing a checkup to make sure she’s okay, like he said. I mean, this guy keeps her in a bag for heaven’s sake…” He shifts his feet. “Makes me wonder if he really cares for her at all.” His eyes are glued to the floor in thought, lips pursed. “Honestly, what kind of father does that? I’m sure he’s done even worse too.”

The young drug dealer’s eyes flick to Steve and his mouth twists into a snarl. He lurches forward as if he were going to jump out of his chair and tackle Steve, but the restraints do their job and abruptly stop him from moving more than half an inch, making it look like more of a really aggressive twitch. 

I take a step back, glancing at Steve. 

“You son of a bitch…” Jackson half snarls, half gurgles as he chokes on the band around his neck, pressing forward on it. “I never had a fucking choice.”

“Sure you did, pansy,” Rick drawls behind him, looking bored. “You coulda got rid of it when you had the chance.” He rolls his eyes. “Or ya coulda just got rid of that bitch of a woman in the first place, Amy or whatever. We all know you’re a fucking faggot anyway.”

“Don’t fucking talk about them like that, motherfucker,” Jackson snaps. “Amelia was a better person than you’ll ever be.”

“Yeah, except for when she abandoned her newborn baby on a criminal’s doorstep and left you for another man,” Rick shoots back, sneering. “Or are you still in denial?”

Jackson lurches in his seat again, fighting against the restraints with a look of rage on his face, his fists clenching and unclenching. “Shut up! Just shut the fuck up!”

“Aww, is baby gonna cry again?” The older man mocks, fake pouting.

“Fuck off! Why the hell do you even hate me so much? Huh, Frederick? What did I ever do to you?” Jackson stops struggling as the pressure from the band around his neck throws him into a coughing fit.

“Hey! Don’t fucking call me that, shithead! I hate you because you’re a massive bitch.” He growls back. “And you ruined everything,” he mumbles, so quiet that, if it weren’t for my heightened senses, I wouldn’t have heard.

The young gang member continues with his coughing fit, and, before he can respond, Jerry juts in.

“Holy fuck, you guys, shut up! We’ve literally been kidnapped and all you can do is argue like little bitches.” 

“But—“ Jackson’s violent coughing fit interrupts again. “Jerry—“ More hacking. 

My God. This guy’s gonna tear an artery.

“And you, Rick!” Jerry continues, ignoring Jackson. “You’re the oldest, you should know better. If you say one more nasty-ass comment to Jackson about his baby, I will personally kill you. So be mature for once in your life and shut the fuck up.”

He doesn’t respond, eyes shifting to stare at the floor.

Steve’s wide eyes glance down at me. “I’ll be right back, kid.” He turns to the door before abruptly spinning back around. “Actually- you come too.” His eyes flick to the flock of criminals in the corner.

I nod, peeking back at Jackson as I follow him out the door. 

He’s finally stopped coughing and now he sits with his head still at that awkward yet surprisingly appealing angle, striking, red-rimmed eyes following me warily. His fingers are tapping incessantly on the armrest he’s secured to. When he sees me staring back at him, he smirks, giving a quick wink as he wets his lips, scanning me up and down.

Immediately, I feel a wave of heat rush to my face and I almost trip.

What the hell?

Rick laughs, seemingly sensing the interaction that just occurred. “Careful there, pretty boy. He likes the innocent ones.”

This time I really do trip, nearly smacking my head into the hard tile floor. 

“Rick! What the fuck did I just tell you!” I hear Jerry’s voice squawk as I hurriedly stumble to my feet and dart the rest of the way out the door, wincing at my scuffed palms.

I slam the door behind me, finally muffling their incessant arguing. Spinning around to face Steve, I smile awkwardly, my face still on fire.

He raises an eyebrow, but says nothing and guides me away from the door.

Once we’re at the end of the hall, he throws open the door in the corner, letting go of my shoulder and barging through. 

I trail behind and enter the room to see Bruce standing next to an exam table, holding an otoscope in the air with his eyebrows raised and Steve's hands firmly on his shoulders.

Tony sits in a chair in the corner, gently rocking the tiny baby back and forth. He doesn’t even glance up at me, his eyes glazed over and glued to the baby in almost a trance. Natasha stands silently next to him. Her eyes flick to me.

“We have got to separate them.” Steve insists, shaking Bruce’s shoulders a little. “The arguing never ends. And-oh my word, the language.” He stares at Bruce with glassy eyes as if he’s having war flashbacks.

“Oh, you mean the gang members.” Bruce nods, his eyebrows still raised. “Indeed. We’ll never be able to get any interrogating done if we don’t move them.” He brushes Steve's hands off him and sets his tool down. “Well, we do have that one other room available… If we sedate Rick or Jackson, we could move one of them in there,” he suggests.

Steve nods hastily. “Yes, that’s perfect! Tony would you—” he stops. “Uh, Tony, are you okay?”

I look back at Tony to see he’s still zoned out, petting the baby’s head.

Steve glances at Bruce in concern before slowly walking up to Tony and leaning down to his face. “Tony.” He places his hand on his shoulder.

Tony startles, gripping the baby tighter as his eyes shoot to Steve. “Wha’?”

“You alright, Stark?” The blond man repeats.

Tony shoots to his feet, knocking Steve’s hand off him and passing the now sleeping baby to Natasha. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good, Cap. What do you want?”

He furrows his eyebrows at Tony. “Uh, I just wanted your help in sedating and moving Rick to another room. So that we could properly interrogate the gang members, you know?”

Stark quickly nods and moves past Steve. “Gotcha. Sure, let’s just—”

An abrupt, ear-splitting scream cuts him off. My heart wrenches as it continues and I throw my hands over my ears. It sounds like someone’s having each of their toenails slowly ripped off and then shoved to the back of their eye sockets.

Finally, it comes to a stop. Everyone stands in shocked silence except for the baby, who is now awake and crying.  
“Rick, please no!” 

The desperate cry snaps us all out of it and Steve and Tony dart for the door, Bruce and I close behind. Natasha is the only one who doesn’t rush down the hallway, presumably to calm the baby down.

When I finally stumble through the door to the interrogation room behind the others, my stomach lurches at the scene.

Jerry lies halfway out of his chair, head bashed in on one side, fresh blood covering his face and seeping onto the floor. One of his eyes is hanging out, the other staring lifelessly in our direction.

Rick stands with a gun pointed at Jackson, who is still completely tied to his chair, entirely immobilized and defenseless. Blood is splattered on the back of his head and down his leg.

“Please, Rick.” Tears pour down his face and his hands are shaking underneath the restraints. “God, I beg you, man. You know I need to live. For her- I need to take care of her. Please, Rick,” he chokes out.

Rick glances at us and laughs. “Man, you’re lucky, bitchtits.”

Steve steps towards him, but quickly stops as Rick brings the gun up to his own head.

“But you know they’ll come for you. They always do. And when he comes for you, you’re gonna wish I killed you.” He laughs again. “See you on the other side, douchecanoe.” Still grinning down at a horrified Jackson, Rick pulls the trigger.


	5. Chris! Is That a Weed??

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***Warnings***  
> • Panic attack/PTSD  
> • Sexual assault  
> • Explicit language  
> • Some gore I guess  
> • Vomiting, if that bothers you idk

Percy’s POV:

Blood splatters over my face as the body of my superior drops to the floor, eyes still open and frozen on me.

My chest constricts and I can feel myself start to hyperventilate, my hands shaking, tears and blood sliding down my face. The longer I stare at his lifeless figure, the more I don’t even see him anymore. Instead, he morphs into the body of my mom, lying dead on our apartment floor, surrounded by her own vomit and blood. The foul stench of that day floods my nostrils and my throat closes up, making me choke and gasp for air. I can vaguely feel a searing pain across my chest and abdomen with every breath, but the sight before me and the ringing in my ears quickly drowns it out.

Suddenly someone’s hands are on my chest and my eyes slide down to see them undoing the buttons on my shirt. My heart rate continues to increase in panic, but when I look up to see who the hands belong to, it stops and drops to the pit of my stomach. 

Gabe, my step-dad, sits next to me on the couch, completely ignoring his wife’s body in front of us and sneering wickedly at me. His hands pull my button-down shirt completely off, tossing it onto my mom’s face before gliding across my collarbone. 

Oh my God, no. Not this again.

I jerk away, trying to shake him off, but my body doesn’t move. One arm remains glued to the armrest, the other to my side, and my back to the couch.

The room starts to spin and bile rises in my tight throat as I realize I’m totally paralyzed. His hands slide down to my belt buckle.

“Let’s have some fun, eh, Jacky Boy?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Gabe snickers as he pulls my belt off and slips his hand into my pants.

Inhaling sharply, I do the only other thing I can think to do and let out an ear-splitting scream, squeezing my eyes shut and praying for it to stop.

“Ah! Jackson! Stop! It’s alright! Dear God…” 

That’s not Gabe.

My eyes snap open to see the face of a young, attractive man hovering above me.

Definitely not Gabe.

I glance down to see his hands on my torso. 

“Fuckin’ get off me!” I attempt to twist away, but find myself still paralyzed by tight restraints all over my body. My shirt is popped open at the top and his fingers fumble around the band on my bare chest, sliding across my skin and making me desperately want to flinch away. I feel unbearably powerless.

“Calm down! I’m just taking off your restraints.”

The pressure on my chest suddenly releases and I gasp in a deep breath, pausing my struggled movements. 

But then the boy’s fingers skim down to my abdomen and my eyes widen, the bile rising in my throat again as I envision Gabe’s groping hands. 

“No! Stop!” I thrash away again, this time succeeding only in arching my back into the bottom restraint. “Please, just leave them.” 

I don’t look at his face, but the young man’s hands stop and slowly lift off of me. My shoulders relax as I attempt to calm my breathing. 

My gaze slides down and to my right, spotting a vague dark shape being lifted off the floor.

What the fuck?

Oh my god, is that—?

Steve emerges from behind me, carrying a body over his shoulder. The head had been severely bludgeoned and an eye is hanging out, but that doesn’t stop me from recognizing him.

And when I do, my stomach gives no warning before it’s emptying its contents all over my body. 

The warm liquid runs down my chin and through my open shirt, however all I can focus on is Jerry’s body being carried out of the room, away from me, eye swinging in the air with every step. His seeping head leaves a dribbled trail of blood out the door.

When some of my vomit starts trickling on to the floor, Peter gasps and grabs a towel off the table, but he freezes as his eyes lock on Jerry’s mutilated body. 

Suddenly, Goatee man appears in my line of vision and snatches the rag away from him, marching over to me and starting to wipe the bile off my face. I fight the immediate urge to jerk away from his hands as they roughly slide the cloth down my cheek and jaw. It feels like the first three layers of my face are being shredded off, but his eyebrows are crinkled and his eyes clouded in concern so I guess he’s trying his best to be gentle.

Behind him, Steve hauls Rick’s limp body over his shoulder. The lifeless eyes of my once superior bore into mine and I swear his signature sneer is still plastered on his face, mocking me, sending a shiver through my body.

Tony’s POV:

As I make my way down Jackson’s neck and chest, gently wiping off the vomit, I notice the concerning condition he’s in. 

Bruises and hickeys twist around his neck, trailing down his collarbone and continuing down his chest before disappearing under his shirt. Now that I’m so close to him, I realize just how much he smells too. He reeks of the most horrid combination of vomit, cigarettes, sweat, and— is that weed?

When was the last time he had a shower? I thought this was supposed to be the most well-off gang in the country and he looks like he lives in a dumpster.

I pull the rag away and look down at his face, drained of color and still held at that odd, tilted position. His eyes are red from crying and glazed over as he stares at Steve behind me.

Suddenly, his croaky voice breaks through the silence, “Why… Where are you taking them?”

I turn around to see Steve pause, the deceased gang member still draped over his shoulder as his gaze shifts to Jackson. “Uh, well”—he glances at me— ”Right now I’m just handing them over to one of the agents to, uh… to—”

“We’ll give them a proper burial if you want,” I interrupt. “He’s just getting them out of the room.”

“But…” his eyes drift away from Rick’s body to gaze vacantly at the blood trail left behind by Jerry. “Why?”

I stare at him and no one responds.

After a few moments of confused silence, Jackson finally looks up at us, his gaze landing on me. “Why are you taking them from me?” he murmurs. 

“I— what?” I blink. “We can’t just keep them in here. They’re-they’re”— I lower my voice— “they’re gone, Jackson. You know that, right?”

His eyes bore into mine for a moment, as if he didn’t quite hear me, before suddenly turning glowering. “Yeah, no shit, dickweasel,” he snarls, “I’m not a fucking dumbass. But” —he glances down at the blood again and his voice drops to a mumble— “But that’s not they did with her…” 

The kid’s dark gaze abruptly snaps back to me and he lurches against his restraints as if to attack me. “That’s just not what you fucking do! Bring them back, you son of a bitch!” He thrashes again. “Just bring them back!” 

Steve takes this opportunity to leave with Rick’s body and abandon me.

I step up to Jackson and lay my hand gently on his shoulder, but quickly jerk it back when it only makes his thrashing more aggressive. “Jackson, calm down! It’s okay!” He completely ignores me, cussing up a storm and borderline frothing at the mouth. 

Sighing, I glance back at Peter across the room. “He’ll settle down eventually, right?” I yell.

He just puts his arms on top of each other and makes a swaying motion.

The fuck?

“You want me to rock him like a baby? Peter, kid, your ideas are usually great, but I don’t think that would work.”

He glares at me and rolls his eyes before stomping over to me. “His baby, Mr. Stark. Let me get him his baby. I bet my life that’ll get him to shut up and calm down real quick.”

I take one last look at the fuming criminal, still cussing me out and shrieking threats, before quickly nodding.

Peter darts out of the room.

After everything this kid’s been through and everything that just happened, he deserves to at least hold his baby.

Like I should have done all those years ago…


	6. No what did you say? What the fuck, dude??

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Warnings***  
> • Panic attack/PTSD  
> • Sexual assault  
> • Explicit language

Chapter 6: No what did you say? What the fuck, dude??

Tony’s POV:

The second his eyes land on the baby, his floundering and cursing subsides and he calms down, a desperate look filling his wide eyes. “What are you going to do to her? Please, I’ll do anything— I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, I swear.” He swallows. “Please don’t do this.”

Peter sighs and steps up to him. “Dear God, calm down. We’re not doing anything.”

Jackson stares at his baby, peacefully snuggled in Peter’s arms in a blue blanket. 

“Can we trust you to have one of your arms untied?” I ask.

Jackson does what appears to be an attempted nod against the restraints on his head and neck.

I guess he wouldn’t be able to do anything anyway if he’s holding a baby.

I reach over and unstrap his left arm, the one still intact, and Peter carefully places the tiny baby in it.

Jackson immediately holds her close to his chest and a small smile spreads across his face as he stares up at us. “Could you maybe undo the one on my forehead too? I can’t even see her.” He mumbles gravelly, followed by with a deep, awkward chuckle. “You can leave the one on my neck if it makes you feel better.”

I don’t respond, but do as he asked.

His head instantly flops forward to gaze down at his baby, everything else seemingly forgotten.

Bruce, Nat, and Steve drift into my peripheral vision next to me. Natasha stands silently, her arms crossed as she watches Jackson. 

Steve clears his throat. “Well, I don’t know about you guys, but I think we should probably postpone this interrogation.”

“No shit,” Natasha mutters.

“Yeah, it’s getting pretty late too.” Bruce glances at his watch. “Midnight, in fact.”

I raise my eyebrows, whirling to Peter. “Don’t you have school tomorrow, young man? You shouldn’t even be up right now.” I shoo him away. “Get your ass to bed.”

He huffs, but turns around and heads out the door. “Fine.”

In the doorway, he stops, looking back at the young gang member with thoughtful eyes. He opens his mouth to say something before abruptly snapping it shut and darting out the door, shouting behind him, “’Night, Mr. Stark!”

I raise my eyebrow. 

The hell was that about?

Sighing and shaking my head, I turn back to the rest of the avengers, specifically Bruce. 

I lean close to his ear, whispering, “We can’t just stand here all night watching him. So… what do we do with… y’know, with the baby?”

Jackson’s eyes shoot up immediately, wide and looking ready to start another fight. “Wait, wait, wait, wait, I can-I can I keep her. I won’t try anything, I swear to God.” His green eyes dart to each person in the room. “I-I swear on my life. I swear on- I swear on—"

“Okay, okay, we get it, kid,” I interrupt. “No need to swear on the entire universe. But I mean, we can’t just leave you here alone to fall asleep with a baby in your lap.” I cross my arms. “She’ll probably fall off of you and smack her head on the ground and bleed out and die a horrible, slow death without you even knowing as you continue to blissfully sleep away and—”

Jackson stares at me with wide eyes, his eyebrows drawn together and mouth stretched in a horrified grimace.

“Anddd, uh, I mean, your arm is completely free.” I throw my hand out in a gesture towards the arm cradling his baby. “You could escape,” I emphasize ‘escape’ with a convincing nod of my head.

His face doesn’t change. “Please let me keep her,” he squeaks, but somehow it still sounds mildly threatening.

What’s he got such a deep-ass voice for?

“Okay, kid, here’s what we can do. You can keep your baby here with you all night—”

“What?” Bruce interjects. “We can’t just—”

I hold a finger out to shush him. “BUT, you’re gonna have to comply to a few… arrangements.”

The thug continues to stare at me, slightly less stiff now. “Are you talking about sex?”

My brain malfunctions.

Steve immediately breaks into a coughing fit and Bruce’s clipboard clatters to the ground.

Blinking rapidly, my mouth falls open, unable to form coherent words.

“What the fuck.” Clint deadpans behind me.

“Child!” I grab his shoulders. “No! Oh my God!”

He stares up at me, looking surprised at my reaction, but otherwise unaffected and murmurs, “You’re gonna wake up my baby.”

I let go and step back, still dumbfounded.

He gently sways his baby back and forth—the best he can with one arm—as I desperately search for words to break the uncomfortable silence. 

After another moment, he looks up at me, still rocking the baby. “What are the conditions then?”

Shit, kid, I can barely remember now.

“Uh…” I scratch the back of my head. “Um, well, first of all, you gotta have someone else in the room with you. I think that’s best for both of us.”

He shakes his head in a ‘so-so’ motion and I ignore him. 

“And second… man, you gotta let us clean you up a bit! Get you a change of clothes and shower.” I take a step back. “You smell like shit.”

His eyes flash, but all he says is: “You’re gonna let me shower?”

“Eh, well, that’s the thing.” I smile sheepishly. “You know we can’t trust you to do that. Just hear me out…” I reach behind me and grab Bruce’s arm, jerking him forward to stand next to me. “That’s what sponge baths are for.”

The gang member gazes at me blankly. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Not everything, okay? Just, like, the waist up and the knees down, and a change of clothes. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds like fucking gay torture,” he rasps.

“Hey, you sounded pretty okay with sex just a minute ago! That’s a little more gay and a lot more violating, if you ask me.”

He huffs, staring down at the floor in thought.

But one look at his sleeping baby and his response is firm, confident.

“Fine.”


End file.
